11 Days
by Queenie Sav
Summary: Fighter pilots only lived 11 days on average. Alfred and Arthur hope that that's inaccurate.


First of all, thanks to PrinceGuillotine for graciously letting me write this. It was all his idea. I just put it into words. Second of all, this is actually based on the statistic that American fighter pilots only lived 11 days on average during WWI. Thirdly, I'm an asshole, so enjoy this horribly heart-wrenching story.

* * *

 **Day 1**

A sense of weightlessness washed away the anxiety. Arthur stared out of the window at the dark sky and tried to imagine what it was like to be among the clouds. He tried to imagine what it was like facing death itself so far above the ground.

Arthur had to keep reminding himself that everything would be okay. Eleven days would come and go and everything would be fine. Alfred would surpass all expectations and come back to him.

Even in that tiny wooden deathtrap of a plane, Alfred would be just fine. Even with enemy fire aimed at him and steep dives towards the ground, Alfred would make it back alive.

That's what Arthur told himself. He couldn't face the thought of hearing that Alfred had been just like all the other pilots- that Alfred had only lived eleven days.

Arthur's memory was plagued with visions of gold hair and piercing blue eyes, with the sound of raucous laughter, with the smells of the English rain and the American's cologne. These memories were soured by the smell of burning flesh and the sound of gunfire. Arthur was going mad and it had only been a day.

 _"_ _I'll be fine. After all, I'm a damn good pilot. The higher-ups don't know what they're talking about when they say I'll only live eleven days. You'll see. In twelve days I'll be right here, holding you, just like I am right now," Alfred said, wrapping his arm even tighter around Arthur. Arthur was still skeptical. Alfred was a good pilot, but surely he wasn't good enough to cheat death._

 _"_ _Promise me, Alfred. I don't think I could handle it if I got a letter of condolence," Arthur said, half joking, half serious._

 _"_ _I promise," Alfred whispered and kissed Arthur's forehead. "In twelve days I'll be back and I'll ask you to marry me," Alfred said, grinning. Arthur's face reddened._

 _"_ _Will you, really?" Arthur asked. Alfred grinned even wider._

 _"_ _Go to sleep, Arthur. We've got a long eleven days ahead of us," Alfred commanded and kissed Arthur again._

Arthur smiled at the memory. Alfred had promised, and he would _never_ go back on a promise. He would be back in twelve days and he would be even better than he was when he left.

Or at least Arthur hoped.

 **Day 2**

The poor men came in droves. Many were wounded beyond repair, just waiting for death. Many of the soldiers- some no more than mere boys- had lost limbs or their sight. These were the soldiers that called out in anguished screams.

Arthur's heart ached. He wished that he could do more for the poor boys that lay on the makeshift beds in agony. He tirelessly wiped away blood and sweat, stitched horrible gashes, amputated limbs, and wrote letters of condolence. The hospital was understaffed and under supplied.

Arthur hoped that Alfred wasn't in a similar place. He hoped that Alfred were still flying high above, bravely shooting enemy soldiers or destroying supply trains. But if by some cruel force of nature, Alfred _had_ been hurt, Arthur hoped that he was in a hospital that could make him comfortable.

"Sir," one of the nurses said, drawing Arthur's attention away from the broken boy in front of him.

"Sir, some more men have arrived," she said. Arthur nodded solemnly and followed the nurse to his new patients.

These men were from every facet of the military, from every allied country. Arthur did the best he could for as many of the men as he could, but it was simply no use.

"Arthur," a weak voice whispered as Arthur walked by. Laying on a rickety cot was one of the men from Alfred's squadron. Arthur immediately fell to his knees beside the man and frantically asked about Alfred.

"I don't know, Arthur. I was shot down, but I saw that he kept going. I pray to God that he is alright," the man whispered. He heaved a wet cough. Arthur wiped the sweat from the man's brow until his last breath.

As Arthur made his way to another emaciated young man, he began to pray.

 _'_ _Oh, God, please bring Alfred home to me in ten days. Please. I can't live without him.'_

 **Day 3**

Arthur sketched idly instead of signing letters of condolence. Anything would be less painful than having to notify the families of the deceased of their losses.

 _"_ _Come on, Arthur! Draw me! Please?" Alfred pleaded. Arthur rolled his eyes but conceded anyway._

 _"_ _I'm not very good," Arthur mumbled, opening a new page in his tiny sketchbook._

 _"_ _Don't lie. You're one of the best I've ever seen," Alfred said. Arthur's cheeks reddened at the praise. He instructed Alfred to face the window._

 _'_ _It was a truly beautiful drawing'_ Arthur thought to himself. Alfred was looking out of the window into the rainy afternoon. A hint of mischievousness glowing the part of his face that could be seen.

Arthur looked down at the idle sketch on his desk. He had drawn as similar picture of Alfred. But this incarnation looked perplexed and upset rather than mischievous and joyful.

Bombs fell on the other side of the window, rather than raindrops.

 **Day 4**

Arthur needed some good news. He had seen hundreds of men die in the past month, and the only person that could draw his mind from the horror was facing hell itself. He still had one more week until Alfred was supposed to return, supposed to defy all odds and return to Arthur.

 **Day 5**

Arthur pulled sheet over the body of another pilot who had reached the end of his eleven day death sentence. It was pitiful. This pilot had still been alive- but just barely- when he arrived at the hospital. He held onto the cross around his neck with all of his remaining strength and mouthed a silent prayer in French.

"Please, I know I'm going to die," the pilot said, weakly grabbing for Arthur's pant leg as he walked by. "Please, just pray that God lets me into Heaven. I know that I have done horrible things. I know that I have killed many men. Pray for me. Pray that if there even is a god, that He is merciful," the man whispered before drawing one final breath.

Arthur stared in horror at the lifeless pilot on the cot. His face might have been handsome, once, when it was not covered in burns from his crashed plane and scars from flying shrapnel. His blond hair- the colour of corn silk- was a few shades lighter than Alfred's, but the pilot's half-open, dull eyes were the exact same shade of blue as Alfred's.

Arthur choked on a sob as the deceased pilot at his feet was replaced with a mental image of Alfred, horribly burned and dead.

 **Day 6**

It was Arthur's only day off from hospital duty. His only reprieve from the horrors wrought by the war raging on the continent. He could hear the raucous laughter and obnoxious voices of the recovering American soldiers that were soon to be on their way back to the States. He hoped none of them would be as unlucky as Alfred, who had been put back into active duty just before his return to America. Arthur hoped he would never have to see any of these men ever again, for if he did, it would surely be to pronounce them dead.

 **Day 7**

It had been one week since Alfred had left on the ferry to France. One week since Alfred took to the air in his rickety wooden plane. Arthur only had to live through four more days of hell before his golden American would be back to finally, hopefully, return to his home country.

Arthur fabricated a scenario in which Alfred was happily enjoying a warm meal at a French military base, laughing with his fellow pilots, rather than facing enemy fire and death itself among the smoke stained clouds. Arthur took a bite of his hard bread before heading back into the teeming mass of wounded men.

 **Day 8**

 _'_ _Oh, dear God. Only three more days,_ ' Arthur thought to himself. Only three more days until his would patch the scrapes on Alfred's body. Only three more days until he could kiss Alfred and cry and laugh and _love_ again.

 **Day 9**

Arthur dreamt that Alfred had been shot. He dreamt that he would never see his golden boy again, that he would never get to hold him, to kiss him, to love him again. Arthur dreamt his worst nightmare.

Arthur woke up in tears.

 _'_ _I'll ask you to marry me,'_ Alfred had said. Arthur hoped that Alfred would uphold that promise.

 **Day 10**

Arthur pronounced the death of seventeen year old American boy. He had lied about his age, and the War was always desperate for more bodies, so he was welcomed warmly into the arms of Horror and Death. Arthur couldn't help but wonder what it was for. Surely the death of so many men was not warranted, no matter the cause.

Arthur always knew that he would witness death when he decided to be a doctor, but he had never imagined that he would witness _so much_ of it. This hellish war had been raging for nearly four years now and Arthur had seen hundreds of men die, he had been there to hear their last, horridly painful breaths. Surely no cause could warrant that kind of destruction.

 **Day 11**

It was the last damned day. Arthur just had to make it through today and then Alfred would come back. Arthur was in a giddy stupor all day as he stitched wounds, cut off limbs, and signed letter after letter of condolence. His body was in that wretched hospital, but his mind was already in enveloped in Alfred's loving arms. Tomorrow- he would see his love tomorrow. Arthur fell asleep peacefully, awaiting the arrival of his Alfred.

* * *

Alfred saw the artillery and knew there was nothing that could be done. He watched as the thin wood splintered and the canvas cloth of the plane's left wing tear as the bullets bombarded his plane. He felt his already precariously steep dive steepen even further. The ground accelerated towards him at an alarming rate. Alfred felt tears streak down his face.

He was too young, damn it. He was only nineteen. He had been so close to going home, but the sky needed him and he believed he could cheat death for a second time. He willingly disregarded his own safety for the sake of a useless war.

"I'm so sorry, Arthur. I love you. I'm so sorry," Alfred whispered over and over again, like a mantra. The impact was jarring enough to snap Alfred's neck. Flames engulfed the tiny wooden plane.

 **Day 12**

Arthur waited all day but Alfred never returned. Arthur refused to be discouraged, though. He had just lived through eleven days of utter hell and he was not going to give up on Alfred now. After all, he could just be stuck waiting for a ferry to bring him back. Surely he would be home in a day or two.

 **Day 22**

A nurse brought the envelope to Arthur.

"Another letter of condolence needs to be signed and mailed," she said. Arthur wearily took the envelope and began to read the enclosed letter.

 _I'm terribly sorry. I don't think anyone should have to die like this young man did. His body was too horribly burned to be returned to the Allies, but I felt it necessary that his identification tags be returned. After all, the man surely has a family that needs to be made aware of his passing._

The letter was written in a neat script on a dirty scrap of paper. It was unsigned, but Arthur felt a respect for a faceless, unnamed German soldier stir deep within him, on account this letter and the return of the identification tags. Arthur pulled the thin metal tags out of the envelope and squinted to read the grimy inscription.

Alfred F. Jones

That was all Arthur needed to read. He felt his heart plummet and tears pricked his eyes. His love, his golden boy, his _Alfred_ had died and the only remnant of him was a rusted identification tag.

Alfred had _promised_. He promised he would make it back to Arthur after his eleven days and Arthur had refused to give up on him. Arthur trusted Alfred. He _loved_ Alfred.

Arthur had given up on Alfred.

Alfred had broken his promise.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I know this was a horrible thing for me to do but I had fun doing it. Also, this little piece was a bitch to write.


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